


Outdoor Patrol

by corpsefluid



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Scat, no really it's just pooping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 02:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18769789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpsefluid/pseuds/corpsefluid
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.





	Outdoor Patrol

**Author's Note:**

> This is the final warning that if you're not here for what it says on the tin, there's nothing for you here. No one is holding a gun to your head, and if they are, blink twice at your webcam. Ain't none of my business.

The trouble with one bathroom shared between four people was that it was inevitably occupied whenever you needed it. Showers could be scheduled and timed but after a certain point you just give up and piss outside.

Or at least Hatred did, the boys tended to wait even if it meant almost wetting themselves, Doc just pissed in the nearest sink whenever he couldn’t be bothered with the stairs regardless of if the bathroom was occupied or not.

To make a long story short, taking your time on a solid shit was out of the question, if you got a chance at the bathroom, that was a luxury. Sometimes you just had to suck it up, go dig a cat hole outside and hope you didn’t uncover any bones.

Hell of a lot harder to do at fifty than when he was twenty, but far less of a pain than making the trek back to the house in the middle of a security patrol, waiting around for an hour to use the throne only to have someone trying to break the door down thirty seconds after you’ve taken a seat.

Since Hatred’s diet had been worse than usual lately, between a renewed attempt to quit drinking and lapses where he drank anything that smelled like it had the slightest capacity to get him intoxicated, the ability to take his time by just going outside was a godsend. Nothing quite like quitting booze to put your digestive tract through the ringer; you’re either puking, shitting your guts out, or agonisingly constipated, all while sweating out your body weight in salt and poison.

This day in particular had been off to a rip-roaring start with gas to put the aftermath of even his worst nights drinking to shame. Yet as foul as it was, he could feel the promise of worse to come later prowling around in his guts.

Hatred quietly assigned himself a couple extra long outdoor patrols as a bit of courtesy not to ‘share’ the brunt of it. Though the exercise helped with moving his bowels along too.

Easier than sitting around looking at camera feeds with nothing to do than focus on the discomfort of the hot sulphurous gas boiling away in his gut, making an obnoxious, stomach churning racket as it fumigated the compound.

It sounded like an old broken drain pipe gurgling away deep in his intestines right before a gas bubble would shift and he’d let off a long, warm and thoroughly disgusting fart.

For the most part his ass was only serving the greasy burn-your-hole-on-the-way-out kind of fart that slid out silently and you just knew smelled like death before it came close to touching your nose but there were a few more melodious offerings in there, with a bit more volume it’d easily get a solid eight or nine out of ten in the barracks back in the day.

Stank all the same.

And there was nothing quite like PT for getting your bowels moving.

The sudden lurch in his guts as his intestines shifted was obvious enough that Hatred adjusted his route through the compound closer to the tree line.

It was pretty mechanical, find a secluded spot where he was pretty sure no one had been buried recently, dig a little hole, drop trou and squat.

The first turd was already pressing against his sphincter. Thick and dry, it stretched his asshole wide almost painfully immediately. Hatred spread his knees and grunted trying to ease the passage a little. Just when it felt like it was about to rip his sphincter, the rest of it dropped out of him with a heavy thud into the dirt.

With that blockage out of the way, Hatred’s guts gave a nasty, tell-tale gurgle as his stomach cramped up painfully. After a long, sputtering fart and dropping a few tiny nuggets of shit, a warm, wet torrent of overly soft poop followed. Churning out of him at the rate and consistency of a dodgy soft serve ice cream machine as it poured into the small dirt hole.

The stench was sickly, the rotten egg smell mixed with foul bile as his shit became less solid and became little more than pissing from his asshole as his stomach cramped again.

Expecting it didn’t make it any more tolerable, and knowing this would happen had yet to get him to think twice before drinking his feelings either. Social and recreational drinking were easy to stop since his social circle in general had been drastically cut down, the new medication helped cut drinking to self-medicate, but boredom and emotional drinking were more difficult holdouts.

All he needed to do was think ‘just a sip would make him feel better’ and he’d proceed to be tanked within the hour. Then sometime after the hangover had worn off, he’d pay the price like he was now.

Bracing himself to handle a second round of his digestive tract painfully, and thoroughly evacuating every trace of anything that might he might have even thought about eating in the past year.

When it eventually tapered off in an uncomfortably long, wet sounding fart, Hatred felt distinctly drained. Between the shit and the sweats he’d probably lost half his body weight in water alone.

Just had to clean up as best he could with what was at hand, bury his mess and he could go get himself some water. Then he’d go back to patrol to wait out whatever else his guts decided to throw at him.

Still probably wasn’t going to be enough to stop him from slipping up, but he could still hope this time was the last time it happened.


End file.
